Chapter 137

FELIX

The truth about Samuel confirmed my suspicions all along–that it had been the intention of the first King of Fresonia to tell the kingdom about the dragons and the Dragon Knights. I couldn’t tell if what I was feeling was vindication, relief, or sadness that such a thing never happened in the following thousand years.

I closed Samuel’s diary, knowing from my own history lessons that what remained of his life were important policy decisions to aid the creation of the government, several children, and eventually a peaceful passing.

I wondered how peaceful his death could have been, though, without having the love of his life there.

That part of me that had ignited the moment I first saw Mila must have been whatever part was left of Samuel inside me that recognized her. Perhaps that was the true purpose of the Destined Bride curse all along–to ensure that in every lifetime, I would find Mila.

From the tiny portions of memories that had sparked earlier in the library, I knew that I would likely be able to access the memories from my other past lives, if I only knew where to look.

I lowered myself to the ground, knowing that the closer I could get to the magic embedded in the very stone of the library would guide me in my journey. I pressed my palms against the floor, closed my eyes, and breathed.

I tried to focus my mind on one thing: that fleeting image of the castle being built. It was my tether, my lifeline to the past, the one thing that connected me to what came before.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, a fragment of a memory came into focus. Samuel’s memory.

I had been sleeping peacefully when I heard shouting from outside my door. I stirred, trying to drag myself from the depths of sleep in order to best address the situation.

I moved slightly, trying to sense if Sofia was awake, when I realized that the bed next to me was cold and empty.

Sofia was gone.

What I was seeing must have been the night Sofia died. I could feel that all-too-familiar pain in my chest, just like the pain I’d felt when I lost Mila.

I sat listlessly on the throne, the guards in front of me kneeling in atonement. From across the throne room, my father surveyed me.

He was a cold man, embittered by the loss of his own wife, my mother, a few years before Fresonia was created. I knew he had high hopes for me, but sometimes the weight of his expectations threatened to crush me.

“The guards are all dismissed,” my father called out. I shifted in my seat, anger the only thing sparking through that deep, dark sadness enveloping me.

“I was questioning them about their role in Sofia’s death!” I protested.

My father shook his head. “It was a tragedy we may never get to the bottom of. Let us focus on the future now, son. There are several eligible noblewomen who would be an excellent queen for you. Shall we discuss suitable marriage options?”

My jaw dropped. “My wife is dead and you expect me to consider remarriage now?”

My father took a step forward, offering up a sly smile. “You have yet to produce an heir, Samuel. That is what should be most important to you moving forward.”

My pulse was racing with fury when he lowered his voice and practically whispered, “It’s what Sofia would have wanted.”

The memory faded to black.

I stayed there, however, keeping my mind trained on that castle, waiting for more memories to break in.

This time, I saw something new–a completed Fresonian castle dusted with the lightest sprinkling of snow. It still looked fairly new, and I was running through my knowledge of early Fresonian leaders when I was plunged back into another memory.

I was reviewing letters at my desk when someone knocked on my door. A pale-faced guard entered, bowing quickly before saying, “Your Majesty, I have terrible news.”

Prince Frederick of the 1810s. Somehow, my heart knew before my brain did.

I sat up a bit straighter. “What seems to be the issue?”

“Countess Sabrina’s body was recovered from an alleyway in Fresia just a few moments ago,” the guard said.

My stomach dropped to my shoes. My fiancée, who had been missing for days, was now officially declared dead.

I wanted to cry or scream or throw something, but I just sat there, numb in my anger.

“There’s more,” the guard said. “We managed to apprehend a few of the villains. They claim they were hired by the crown to kill Sabrina for her jewels to help the kingdom’s debt.”

Before I could react, I was placed into the memory of Prince Daniel.

Cassandra was lying lifelessly in the hallway, a pool of her own blood surrounding her head. I fell to my knees a few feet away, unable to get any closer to the body of my dead lover.

She would have made an excellent queen,

A guard rushed up behind me. “They found the assassin a few moments ago, trying to escape over the back wall. He will be interrogated and dealt with accordingly.”

“Good,” I said through gritted teeth. “We must get to the bottom of this.”

Prince Maddox of the 1940s, trapped beneath the castle as war raged above his head.

“They switched the cells,” my mother said softly. “The soldiers took Madeline instead.”

“Where is she?!” I demanded to know, dread running through my blood. “Where is she?!”

“She was burned in dragonfire,” my mother said, turning her head so that I could not see her tears. “We switched the cells to save your life. They did not know it was Madeline until it was too late.”

“Where are they now?” I was going to grab a sword and fight my way to those soldiers myself.

“The dragon killed them too,” my mother whispered. “We are now merely awaiting rescue.”

Prince James of the 1730s, watching his beloved choke to death.

I held Greta’s limp body in my arms as the royal coroner inspected her wine glass. He gave it a sniff and then instantly recoiled.

“Poison,” he declared.

Prince Milo of the 1680s, marrying against his station and following his heart.

“Who gave the order for Alexia to be beheaded?!” I yelled. Only my father could look me directly in the eye.

“I did,” he said. “It’s no good for a king to marry a prostitute.”

“I loved her!” I cried out. “How dare you! This is treason!”

“It’s not treason,” my father said blithely. “It’s merely taking the trash out. You will thank me one day when you are remarried to a proper lady and are remembered for your deeds, not the streetwalker you put a crown on.”

“How dare you!” I lunged towards my father, ready to strike him across the face. “She never asked to be a prostitute!”

My father ducked out of the way, swerving my fist. “And we never asked for her to be our queen. It will all be better this way, son.”

So Mila really had died a hundred times over thinking that I was to blame. We were always fighting against fate to be together.

How could I ever ask my wife to forgive me?